


The Reckoning

by Marshmellows_and_Mittens



Category: One Piece
Genre: Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Childish captains, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Loosely canon, Pre-Canon, Roger Era, Semi-Canon Compliant, Siblings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmellows_and_Mittens/pseuds/Marshmellows_and_Mittens
Summary: "Roger, what the hell?" She sighed, after five long years, and very much expecting a happy, wholesome reunion. "I get the notorious pirate thing, I do, really, but is breaking my deck in half as a hello really necessary?" ...The little bastard had the nerve to look embarrassed.-Or in which Gol D. Roger had an older sister that apparently no one knew existed.





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is a story of mine that I’m cross posting on fanfiction.net, and that account (Lowdown and Dirty) has all the latest chapters if anyone at all if interested in reading ahead. 
> 
> Happy reading, I hope you enjoy!

" _It's like the whole world-everything we knew and had ever known-was suddenly collapsing in on itself at the same exact moment in every inch of space and time and there was nothing that we could do about it. I couldn't breathe, no one could, and the air was so thick and suffocating and horrible that the world was drowning us in our own misery. There was smoke and fire and there was nothing we would have ever been able to do to stop it-nothing, nothing, nothing at all-and my life was going up in flames, quite literally before my very eyes._

 _It hadn't always been like that though. In fact, everything that had ever happ_ ened _to me before then had been so very perfect-even if I hadn't known that-up until that moment._

_I'm not being sentimental. In comparison to the ash and fumes and screaming, anything would have been perfect. This is plain and simple honesty speaking._

_I wasn't a very good child, and I could have been better, and that will haunt me for the rest of my life, but I also refuse to have regrets. I will never forsake my life to wallow in my tears, my heartache. I vowed that the day my village was ravaged to the ground. I swore to my little brother that I would take care of him until the day I die._

_That is where our story begins I suppose; not that day, no, that comes a bit later, but with my brother, whom you are most certainly well aware of._

_His name was Roger._

_You might know him as Gol D. Roger, the Pirate King."_

 

* * *

 

Piques D. Anne was running for her life.

Not that it was very uncommon, just a real annoyance to the people who wanted her dead. Mostly because the mongrel of a girl could run faster than all the men chasing her combined, and was very much not in need of dying, thus resulting in Anne becoming so well versed in Lougetown nuances that, if she wanted, she could stay hidden and well fed for up to two months; possibly more. Anne knew what shopkeepers could afford sparing scrapes, the best hidden alleyways, and most importantly, she had the ferry schedule memorized.

That was the chief bit there, the ferry, because if she couldn't get back to her proper island, the proper Polestar island that is, her grandfather would have a fit.

Anyway, Anne was running for her life. She wasn't too terrible concerned about it. Which might sound strange, but it really wasn't, because while she was being chased by a group of thugs, she was laughing, their spoils jingling in her pockets all the while. Also, the ferry was leaving in exactly two minutes. Just enough time for her to get on and leave her pursuers cursing at the dock, wondering where she'd gone.

They certainly weren't too bright.

Anne laughed and laughed and maybe she was just a little bit crazy, but that didn't matter at the second.

All that mattered was that she had won and that those wretched criminals got what was coming to them. In the end, that's all that was important to Anne anyway when she made her rounds around Loguetown.

She took a sharp right, into an alleyway that had been abandoned for years, and rushed atop a mountain of garbage likely for the homeless and street rats. Anne made quick work of climbing on top of the roof of Tao-san, the baker, and tiptoed over to the box she had nailed to the back of his house.

She had little things like this all over town, nothing unusual. Just somewhere to switch out clothes, should she get into trouble (which was often). She jerked a black cloak out of the box, and set the sun hat she had been wearing inside in it gently. The exchange only took a few seconds at the most, and then she was gone, walking to the ferry, her hood up and a grin on her face.

Not five seconds after she stepped on the boat, the captain announced its departure, and the seven year old absolutely delighted in watching her victims run right past the dock, cursing, completely oblivious to her presence just a few meters out into the sea.

She laughs and the waves chortle with her, crashing against the ferry in chaotic harmony.

These are her idyllic days, running and laughing and being a cloud in the wind.

 

* * *

 

She spends far too much time wondering why her father is such a deadbeat.

Sure, the moment Anne had taken her first breath was the same moment her mother (one Piques Manoa) took her last, but she finds that, in her pragmatic little mind, to be irrelevant. Of course, if she had the choice, she would want her mother to be alive and well, but that wasn't how it was. Anne would be grateful with the cards she had been dealt with-that she had been dealt any cards at all-and she would decide her own way with these cards.

She sat at the table of her grandparents' little cottage on the small island Juro, in the even smaller village of Tanju. She does most of her pondering in the early days at this table, with her grandparents sneaking worried looks at her every now and then, and it is at this table that Anne decides that there is no such thing as destiny or fate. There was an end, that was somewhat inevitable, but not set in stone. There were choices, while not compulsory, that were dictated by right and wrong.

Fate and Destiny and words like it were just excuses for someone not willing to understand that they had real power over what was done in the world around them.

Anne would not attribute her mother's death to fate or her father's cowardice to destiny.

Those were only unfortunate circumstances and bad decisions, she knew. People were too stubborn for some force like destiny or fate or whatever to sweep them along in its current.

When she was seven, none of this was as nearly thought out as it is now (now being a long while from then), but the idea had been there since forever. She would be sixty years old, greying, and dying, and even then, this notion would not leave her mind.

And looking back, she realizes that that choice made her.

Not fate, nor destiny, but her. She had made herself, and while it may seem paradoxical, it's honestly like that for everyone.

People make themselves and others.

No one or thing else.

It is at her grandparents' table that Anne knows how she will live and die; and that it is her choice, and no one else's.

She is seven years old and gearing up to take on the world, even if she doesn't know what for yet.

All that she is aware of is this permanent chill against her skin and rage burning in her bones towards Heaven knows what and Anne needs something to take it out on.

That something just so happened to be criminals.

Who could honestly blame her, really?

 

* * *

 

She sells her wares (more accurately, the things she's stolen from the bottom feeders and criminals of Lougetown) along the street with a smile on her face. Money is hard to come by in Juro for farmers like Gol D. Jeremiah and Gol Judith, and Anne only wants to fatten up their savings, for their retirement of course.

She operates her business on the shady side of town, opposite of the boutiques and farmer's markets where her grandparents struggled to sell their produce.

There are plenty of questionable looking people, and even more disreputable bars and Anne's seen her father more than once on those streets, with a girl on his arm and booze in his hand.

She doesn't care.

So, Anne sells the swords and knives and guns she's stolen over the years, and she knows her stuff.

She'll rack up money faster than all the black markets combined can manage, and soon, when she walks down those streets, she will pit the fear of God into those scoundrels that called that dump home.

But that isn't now: she's still a smudge of dirt against the filthy backdrop of stained buildings and booze bottles littering the ground. She's lucky if one pirate stops to buy a gun; even luckier if a frantic fugitive buys all her stock of knives while on the run from marines.

Anne saves her money, and spends nothing.

She's got sticky fingers, and they would take her to the very top of the food chain if it killed her. (Which it would not, by the way. She wouldn't be dying until a very, very long time.)

And so Anne continues on, making a cushy little savings account for her grandparents in the process, which she hides under her bed, and discovering why the Gol family put their strength to farming and nothing else.

She socked some guy in the face and broke his nose, teeth, and eye sockets. A right hook to a thief's jaw left it unsalvageable. A frustrated swipe at a wall ended with her staring at a shrieking man in the shower holding a rubber duck.

Apparently monstrous strength ran in the family. Except her father, which was strange.

Her grandpa said it had to do with him not "possessing the Will". Whatever that meant.

There is little seven year old Piques D. Anne hasn't done in terms of business, and what surprises her more is that there is still so much to experience.

 

* * *

 

 So, running from the marines was definitely a new experience.

Anne turned, while still running, to throw a nasty glare at the uniformed sailor. His face was twisted into the most horrible scowl (but not the worst she had ever seen), and he waved his sword in the are as if to emphasize the death threats being thrown her way.

And there were certainly plenty of those leaving his mouth, don't get her wrong.

Some background might be necessary.

Anne had wanted some new items for her cart.

Marine pistols were very shiny and the wood was impeccable and the kind that hardly ever got jammed, which meant she could charge a good 200 beli more for, 300 if she could steal it from a marine who'd made a name for himself.

Which is why she decided to nab it from the most feared marine in all of the Polestar Islands: Captain Nottingham Isedore Jerald.

He was big on cracking down on the common criminal and black market dealer and most especially pirates. Somehow pirates were becoming the main focus of the newly minted "World Government" (which was only a tender 150 years old that coming summer) and while the raids dwindled those in the military felt their ego boost, and thus heads began to swell. Captain Nottingham in particular.

He was a righteous bastard in Anne's opinion, always speaking to everyone as if he had never done wrong, and Anne wasn't some genius, but she wasn't an idiot either. She knew there was no such thing as an infallible human being-the very combination of words was contradictory to everything it meant to be human in the first place.

Which was why Nottingham was her target.

And also why he was chasing her.

It was fun, no doubt, but the strange looks she received while flying down the street were ones that she could go without. Nottingham screamed, and she laughed.

"You shitty little street brat!" He'd belch out at the top of his lungs.

"Fuckin' marine can't even keep track of 'is guns!" Anne would cackle on back, well aware that if her grandparents ever heard her utter the beginning of that sentence she'd be six feet under.

This was how most of the chases between the two of them went. She would run and run and run and he would holler after her, red faced and tail between legs when he decided to give up. Which was often.

Nottingham wasn't the only marine she terrorized; no, the entirety of the Marine base felt her wrath that spring (and would continue feeling it for many more years), and no one was safe from the holy terror that had no name. They started calling her, "The Gremlin".

It was catchy.

Anne liked it.

It stuck.

There were other stories, more adventures, and too many on the run situations to count past her eighth year and into her ninth.

But her tenth was definitely the most notable, by far, because that was the year Roger came.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And it's been a while so let's just get into it?

Anne had come to learn that if you wanted to survive, you had to expect the unexpected, always and everywhere.

Except, while Anne had taken this to heart, she had also learned that Tanju was the most predictable village on earth. You woke up, you worked (which had a healthy bit of not working, talking, and then calling it working), you ate somewhere in between waking up and working and then you would have some free time if you were lucky, and then you would go to sleep. Very structured, very boring, and very not Anne.

The whole village was well aware of the strange anomaly known as Piques D. Anne. Sure, she would do chores for her grandmother-her Maman-and would play sweet little girl with all the village folk, but she was, for a lack of a better, nicer word, vicious.

There had always been something's off about her; from the way she talked to the way she held herself as she walked down the road. It seemed like everyone knew, like everyone was consciously aware to steer clear out of her way. Well, everyone besides her grandparents, of course, who rarely asked about how she got along with people, knowing full well Anne didn't have any friends to speak of.

Anne might have been a rising figure in Loguetown's black market, but Anne was still a horrible liar. Well, moderately horrible when her grandparents were concerned. She could ball face lie to anyone besides her grandparents, absolutely anyone but them.

She could lie to children, old folk, adults, criminals, holy men, marines, and she could even lie to herself from time to time, but never, not ever to her Maman and Papa. Anne could bend the truth, omit details, and stretch the facts, sure, but never outright lie.

It was a good thing they were so very oblivious. They thought Anne was wandering out in the jungle everyday, which she did do from time to time, so not a fib, but she spent far more of her time extorting criminals and shaking down violent drunks out of their bar money, telling them to go back home to their families and get their lives together.

Anne was an unpredictable little girl-so she expected unpredictable things to happen around her.

When she heard a knock at the cottage door, it was expected.

It was midday, beautiful outside, and the neighbors probably wanted to come over and chat with her grandparents. They usually did that when they should've been tending to the fields, but no one in Tanju was ever too concerned with actually surviving or anything; everyone was way too laid back for that.

Naturally, Anne opened up the door, a greeting on her lips that quickly died when she saw who was there.

"H'llo." Said a itty bitty tyke, who barely went up to her knee (which was saying something, because she was tiny as well), and he grinned this big wide smile that was full of gaps and baby teeth that had barely come in.

"Hi." Anne returned, crouching down so that she was eye level with the kid. "Who are you?"

The little thing laughed, high pitched and loud, failing his arms-and he couldn't have been older than two years old-and Anne had this sinking feeling in her stomach.

"'m Wog'r! Uh..." He furrowed his little brow and thruster his tongue into his cheek. "Go-Gol D. Wog'r. Mmm." He puffed his chest out, looking real proud that he was able to say it properly.

Anne felt a lump in her throat as she smiled. "Roger, yeah?" He nodded at her, smiling brightly. "Roger, where are your parents?"

He made a face. "Pop ru' off." Then, he grinned. "Le'rr!" He did a little dance, clapping his hands together, then he started patting himself down.

"Le-what now?" Anne muttered to herself as he reached into a pocket and out came an envelope. "Oh." Roger offered it to her, his oddly not chubby cheeks straining from all the smiling he was doing. "Letter, that's it, right?"

Roger nodded energetically, and was bouncing on his tip-toes as Anne grabbed his tiny hand gently tugged him inside the house. She sat him down at the small, but welcoming table her Papa had built by hand. Anne's small fingers managed to rip open the envelope that simply had Gol written in barely legibly writing on the front.

She doesn't like what she reads.

Not one bit.

She cringed, and quickly scuttled off towards the back of the cottage, swinging open the back door with as much strength she could muster.

(Which was a lot, seeing as how the door flew off its hinges.)

"MAMAN!"

She shrieked so loudly that she was positive that the entire island heard her. Anne barely paused to look if her grandmother had heard her as she barreled out the door and to said guardian waving the letter at her face with frustration.

Her Maman was old, weary, but it was easy to tell that she had once been beautiful. Her black and white hair used to be the loveliest of ebony, and her dulled, strained eyes used to be the most intelligent of blues. Maman used to be beautiful, but she had grown elegant in her old age.

Anne knew that Papa could see them from the other side of the forty or so acres they owned, and that he would be joining them sooner or later. She could see him waving his straw hat at them frantically, as if to say, "Hello!", very enthusiastically. Not being in the mood to act cheerful, she unfolds the letter, cleared her throat, and began to read the drunken scrawl that was written on cheap parchment.

_"The kid's name is Roger; if you haven't figured that out already. You don't need to know much about the shit-just get him off my hands. He's been a pain in my ass for a while, and I can't take care of him no more. His birthday's on December 25. He's three. That's basically it._

_Aaron"_

Anne feels her face grow exceedingly hot, and all she can think of how that dick just left his son on his own-without a word. The paper crumples in her hands and rage boils furiously inside her. Maman's face turned five shades of red, and by the time Papa had made his way across the field, Maman was preparing for war.

"Jeremiah," She said, turning on her heels so fast Anne was surprised whiplash wasn't involved, "If we ever see our son again, I'm gonna to drop kick him to the New World."

Papa gives her a strange look, but as Anne straighten out the paper balled up in her fist, his face went pale. As soon as he had read it, the trio was most certainly sharpening their metaphorical pitchforks (though they did have very real ones stored away in the barn somewhere). They all stormed back into the house, to the kitchen, where Roger was still sitting at the table, swinging his legs and humming a jaunty little tune.

"Roger," Anne chirped, deceivingly pleasant as she lifted the boy up in a swift, strong motion, cradling him in her arms with ease. She adjusted him upright, balancing him on her hip with the both of them facing her-their-grandparents. "Roger, this is Maman and Papa." Her eyes meet theirs, just for a second there is sadness and heartache exchanged, but she quickly adopts a smile that Roger mimicked immediately.

Papa grins, and it is clear that smiles were hereditary in the Gol family.

"Heya, squirt." Papa ruffles Roger's thick head of pitch black hair with fondness usually reserved for Anne and Maman. But Roger was apart of the family now; that was undeniable. The boy giggles, and all is seemingly right with the world at that moment.

At least, until everyone really thinks about who Roger is, and where he's been, and who he's been with.

There is a tacit silence shared among Anne and her grandparents.

Gol Aaron was not a pleasant man. He drank too much, smoked more than a fire, and lived only for booze and women. How he had managed to keep a child alive, for three years, no less, is nothing short of a miracle.

Roger probably didn't know who his mother was; and he was probably only vaguely aware of was it meant to have a family. He was skin and bones-no doubt due to Aaron's drunken forgetfulness-and he had a gaunt, sullen face that clashed with his bright eyes and smile in the most heartrending way.

Anne wants to scream.

There she was, doing business in her father's hunting grounds, never bothering to notice that he was an idiot with liquor and girls-three things that should never go together, but somehow always do. Anne never noticed Roger-maybe Roger had never even left his house before, and Anne would have noticed jack shit and there is guilt that creeps into her bones like poison.

Anne can attest, even years upon years later, she still remembers how Roger smiled at her, and how her guilt-her guilt of everything she's ever done wrong, but never her regret-was slowly killing her.

That was the day Anne first felt unfathomable guilt.

It would not be the last.

* * *

 

Roger had Anne wrapped around his little finger merely days after his arrival. She found herself sharing every hidden base, every secret she had, to a three year old. It probably wasn't very smart in hindsight, but Roger just had these eyes full of wonder and insatiable curiosity that made her want to tell him that everything he would ever need or want to know.

It's a week after Roger came and he's been told everything there is to know about Piques D. Anne. Granted, it was a long shot-a really long shot-to say that he remembered any of it, but it was the principle that mattered.

It is a week and a half before they take it upon themselves to go find adventure.

It doesn't end very well for the people who weren't Anne or Roger, but that didn't matter because those two are basically the whole plot at this point. (But don't tell them that, they-meaning Anne-would probably get a big head about it.)

It starts like this:....ladybugs.

Seems harmless, right?

Ladybugs are cute little things, absolute incarnations of good luck and all that jazz.

Right?

Wrong.

While Juro was one of the more tame island of the Polestar Archipelago, the one thing that was absolutely terrifying about it were the enormous ladybugs. Those suckers got about two meters tall and weighed about 42 kilograms and they were the most disturbing things ever.

Anne woke up a week and a half after Roger had gotten dropped off and rolled out of bed with the grace of a drunk donkey. She got dressed-in her standard white blouse and navy blue jumper, complete with bare feet and a black flat cap-and marveled at how much she looked like she belonged in a musical before scurrying off to the kitchen.

There was Papa, munching on his toast and shoveling eggs into his mouth. Maman sipped on orange juice and nibbled at some sausage and an apple. Roger, on the other hand, was wolfing down food like a little vacuum and it was honestly just a little bit scary.

Anne doesn't bother commenting on Roger's lacking table manners; not like Papa's were any better.

She grabs some toast, steals sausage from Maman's plate and almost gets her hand bitten off when she reached for some of Roger's strawberries. She manages to snag one, and thankfully kept her hand in the process.

That boy was an eater, that was for sure.

She ran and hops up on the countertop, admiring the newest addition to their little family with zeal.

"Maman!" Anne chirped, chipper and very not like Anne as she swung her legs back and forth.

Her grandmother took a sip of orange juice, and then set the glass down gently. "Yes, Anne?"

The girl rolled her eyes at the quaintness of it all, before leaning forward, almost falling of the counter with eagerness. "I wanna take Roger explorin'."

"Explorin'?" Papa parroted back to her with wide eyes, "Why, the boy's jus' got here and you wanna go take him explorin'?"

Maman doesn't say anything-she merely glanced at Papa before taking a bite of sausage with a contemplative look on her face.

"Yeah, I mean, he's gotta learn how to get himself around sometime or 'nother, right" Anne knows her argument is very, very valid. They couldn't take care of a baby and the crops at the same time. It might've been different if Papa were just a tad younger, and stronger, but he wasn't. They were getting old and they knew it and Anne knew it also. Anne could take care of herself; and her grandparents knew that she would teach Roger to take care of himself just the same. "I already knew the island back to front when I was his age."

"Anne, you're a peculiar child; ya can't just expect yer brother to be the same." Papa muttered under his breath, sharing a look with Maman as he realized the battle was already lost.

Anne puffed her cheeks out, indignation raising up in her breast. "He's my brother-he'll be plenty strange! Don't write 'im off as normal just yet!"

Maman just shook her head and smiled.

"Anne, take your brother and go have fun."

That was all she needed.

Anne squeaked-very high pitched-and swept Roger into her arms. After some adjusting, the tyke was on her back without a problem, all wide-eyed as she laughed. "Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on tight, alright?"

Roger giggled at her, nodding firmly. His hair fell all into his face, covering his eyes and Anne and Maman shared a look.

That mop would be trimmed back by the end of the week, that was for sure.

And with this the door swung open with a loud crack.

Anne and Roger were off, and the sound of laughter echoed through the village; turning head and bringing wistful smiles to the faces off all who hear.

(Anne and Roger always did sound the best when the two words had the conjunction and in between them. Sooner than later that would be how it was-Anne and Roger but never one or the other. Always Anne and Roger.)

"Okay, so, Roger, how much to you know about Juro?"

"Juwo?" He questioned, loudly, and right in her ear. "Wha's dat?"

"The island, of course." She stated as they crossed the field, heading straight for the forest. "Juro is the island, which is apart of the Polestar Archipelago, and we live in Tanju, the village." To emphasize the village part she abruptly turned and pointed to said community.

Anne couldn't see Roger's face, but judging by his silence, it was likely he didn't get any of that. So, she turned the conversation to a more childish topic as walked along one of the many paths in the forest, intended to make travel easier, but mostly used by Anne to locate more isolated sections of wood.

"What's your favorite food, Roger?"

The child thrashed his legs and clapped his hands together in a moment of pure enthusiasm; "Thabewwies!"

"Strawberries?" Anne clarified, enunciating carefully, hoping that doing such a thing would get him to say his words properly, "You don't like sausage? Maman makes the best sausage."

He considers her words with a short period of thoughtful humming. "Bwown stuff? Smell good?"

"Yeah. It tastes better than it looks. Well, not all meat is like that but sausage definitely is." Anne suddenly takes a right, into a thicket of bushes and underbrush that looked particularly wild. "Anyway, I like bananas. Bananas are good."

Roger squealed, obviously agreeing.

They chatter some more, talking about nothing in Anne's opinion, but it just made Roger so happy to have someone listen to his noisy babbling. Half the time his sentences weren't even coherent or understandable in any way, shape, or form, but Anne always nodded and laughed and made an effort to try and translate what he was saying.

They were about two hours into their little adventure when it happened.

The ladybugs appeared.

It all occurred very fast; Anne was laughing, Roger was chattering away in her ear, and then bam!

A giant ladybug came hurdling at the two children.

Anne shrieked in surprise and Roger blew a raspberry its way (not the best way to react to a giant bug, but Roger proved himself to be strange when it came to danger in the years to come). Faster than a bullet out of a gun, Anne was high tailing it to the river. Roger's peels of laughter echoing through the forest, and Anne was sure that Maman and Papa could probably hear the child's cackling.

"Touch! Touch!" He crowed happily as Anne ran so fast her feet barely touched the ground. Anne could feel him start to let go of her neck and quickly rectified his error in judgement.

"No, Roger, that's a bad ladybug, no touch!" She yelled as she pulled his arms back to where they belonged.

From behind them, the ladybug roared, it's creepy huge eyes refracting light in a way that promised a painful death. Anne felt her eyes water just a little bit. Just a little. And it was only because of the dust in the air, for certain.

At first it was only one ladybug. Then it was two. Then three. Then twenty.

Anne was not happy.

Roger seemed to be having a blast.

She had long pasted the river, and found a trail that probably led back to some poor farmer's fields, but Anne wasn't in the position to be thinking about other people. Roger and herself were the main priorities, and if a field had to be trampled and eaten by ravenous ladybugs then so be it.

She took and abrupt right turn, and dashed straight into a rice field.

More specifically, Yoshu-san's rice fields.

Now, Yoshu Taro was a middle aged man who had had a wife, three kids, and a temper that rivaled her own; not that anyone knew that. He was prone to bouts of drunkenness and alcoholism-and even if his long gone family wouldn't admit it, Anne had seen Yoshu Mei with poorly hidden bruises once or twice. It was one of the many downsides of living on a relatively small island with an agricultural focus. People could be kilometers away from each other, and everyone had a sort of 'not my problem' attitude about them that one would think uncharacteristic of a small community, but in actuality was more common than not.

Anne, to say it kindly, very much disliked Yoshu-san.

She felt absolutely no remorse as those ladybugs laid waste to his crop, and Roger didn't either, if his giggling was anything to go by.

She cackled, Roger did too, and then she ran.

She ran as far and as fast as she could, mostly because she was half decent at it, and a little because she loved the thumping of her heart in her chest and the sound of her feet slapping against the ground. She runs all the way back home-just in time to avoid suspicion, and also watch giant ladybugs invade Tanju.

Her grandparents talk about the historic Ladybug Invasion of June 2 that night at dinner and discuss the probability of the village becoming apart of the ladybugs' yearly migration route.

Anne keeps her mouth shut, and Roger claps his hands, yelling, "Lad'bog!", to her grandparents' amusement.

Anne recalls that day as being the first of many adventures she and Roger shared. It is the beginning of the Polestar Islands' very own Delinquent Duo.

* * *

 

_"Many, many years later, our adventures were all wore out, you see. The names Anne and Roger didn't seem to fit quiet right anymore; the infamy associated with it all overruled any happiness it use to inspire._

_Roger left on his own adventures, soon enough, but a long time after that first incident with the ladybugs. I'm sure he did it because he couldn't stand that town. It was too small, too small for a man like Roger, and too small for a woman like me._

_I assume it's also because I left._

_The brine and waves lured me away into wondrous notions. Having fun, causing trouble...being free._

_I left Roger on his own, both of us knowing that if I stayed, it would kill me. I guess the same happened to him._

_Normalcy was suffocating-and I am for certain that had we stayed; had we let our dreams vanish into the breeze-everything that made us, us, would have withered and died."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this may or may not be slow for some people, but I think it's good to get to know a character and their situation before getting into the adventure. But that's coming up soon too so don't worry. Please drop in a review, if you have anything to say; I'd love to hear anything you guys have to offer. 
> 
> Over and Out

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions, please ask. AND I do realize that the organization recognized as the world government has been around for like 800 years, I just decided to make it 150 since it was “officially established” so yup


End file.
